


Embark

by quartzapple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Drug Abuse, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartzapple/pseuds/quartzapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's journey ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embark

**Author's Note:**

> Why the hell did I write this?! Well, there sort of is a reason – I got a little bit morbidly excited and interested with the good old imagery of a train taking dead souls or whatever to the afterlife or whatever, so I decided to murder some people in order to experiment with it. This is more than slightly johnlock, but it’s up to you whether the sexual tension was resolved or not.

The train wasn’t packed, but neither was it empty. A young woman nervously twisting a silver band around her left ring finger – _a gift from a lover, obviously, though the relationship was in its final stages_ – sat opposite an old man and his dog – _the dog was old too, and stared up at the man with deep adoration in his eyes; the man had rescued the dog as a puppy, and was just as attached to the dog as it was to him_ – who sat a few seats away from a kid in a hooded sweatshirt – _breathing heavily, running away from something_ – as the train rattled on its tracks. None of the other passengers conversed among each other, and none of them looked up as Sherlock entered the carriage.

The carriage was cold and Sherlock was pleased he had remembered his coat. Or rather, John had, forcing it upon him and insisting it would be cold tonight even though the sky was suitably overcast enough to retain the heat London generated, and since London never got terribly cold in October he probably wouldn’t have needed it anyway. But John had insisted, as he always did since Sherlock had come back.

A smile threatened-

_-“Sherlock, it’s just two slices of toast. It isn’t going to kill you – if anything, it’s going to do the opposite. I’ll even let you have some of my jam”_

_“One slice and you’d let me use the jam anyway.”_

_“Deal.”_

\- but was suppressed quickly.

The young woman was not wearing a coat. The youth and the old man were suitably dressed for the cold, but she wasn’t. Sherlock supposed the gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer her his coat, but it simply wasn’t done to speak to strangers on a train, and John had insisted he wear it. No, she was only wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but she wasn’t shivering. Her breath puffed into clouds in the cold air.

He took a step forwards and selected a seat near the door; a suitable escape route if necessary, though the assembled crowd didn’t seem particularly threatening. The smooth upholstery creaked as he sat down. Strange. It was in a style far older than any standard UK train interior. It was much closer to that of Edwardian, or even pre-Edwardian patterning and material and the wood appeared to be oak. Sturdy brass pins held the dense fabric to the wood. One finger traced over a line of stitching and-

_-“…stop fidgeting and pay attention! Really, Shirley-“_

_“I asked you not to call me that.”_

_“You’ll always be mummy’s little Shirley and you know it. Anyway, your great aunt Agatha is coming to visit, and I want you both to be on your best behaviour-“_

-followed it to the edge of the seat. Dull but possibly useful experiments occurred to him, mostly involving soggy woollen jumpers and pulling stitches and John’s irritated expression, but he dismissed them quickly. They wouldn’t serve any real purpose other than to annoy his flatmate.

One hand disappeared into a coat pocket and pulled out his mobile phone, but there was no reception. A quick glance out of the window did indeed confirm that the train was almost certainly going through countryside far away from civilisation. It was almost dark enough to suggest a tunnel, but it was too quiet. The roaring echo of the train rumbling over its tracks as it passed through the tunnel would almost be a comfort.

There were no new messages, but Sherlock opened the last one he had received from John – a reminder to buy more milk, as per usual, as well as unspecified fruit. Undoubtedly some way of trying to entice him to eat more frequently. He was sure-

_-“Clubcard accepted,”_

_Sherlock smirked. John would never know the loyalty card was missing, or question where the extra points came from._

_“Please select payment type.”_

-he had already done the shopping. He glanced down, but there were no bags. Upon further examination, his wallet was in place, and the receipt was tucked neatly away behind a handful of twenty pound notes. Perhaps he had misplaced them whilst getting onto the train, or dropped them whilst thinking, or-

_-“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock, I’m not an idiot! I can see the signs as plain as day, and don’t you dare lie to me about this! Not this!”_

_“You’re obviously mistaken-“_

_“I’m a doctor, not an imbecile. Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate-“_

Oh.

Eyes wide, Sherlock re-examined the other passengers. Blood streamed from cuts on the woman’s wrists, one straight and one jagged, coating her hands and sticking her fingers together as she twisted the ring again and again. Her clothes dripped with perfumed water. Death by exsanguination, accelerated by the warmth of the bath. The old man’s face was too pale, starkly contrasted by the dark purple stain of the ligature marks around his neck. Most likely a leather belt had been used as a ligature, based on the size of the mark. The dog had starved to death after his master had died. The youth was slumped in his chair, blood spreading across the floor, limbs at unnatural angles and face contorted with pain. He wheezed with each breath through a shattered nose and irreparably broken jaw. Most likely an impact with a fast-moving train.

The crook of his own arm ached.

The carriage door opened and a man in a conductor’s uniform stepped into the carriage. Startlingly blue eyes scanned the space, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. A small, warm smile spread across the conductor’s face.

“He’ll be with you soon, Mr Holmes.” The conductor spoke evenly.

* * *

 

 

 

The gun was cold and heavy in his hand as John raised it to his head and pulled the trigger. 


End file.
